The Pit
by Virtute et Armis
Summary: "He had hoped in those first moments. He could breathe so he could survive—just one of those vain human instincts we haul around in our hearts." Graphic Torture.


This is what I believe happened in the Pit. The characterization is drawn mainly from my own opinions, so it may differ from the show. I also do not own the characters, at all, they belong to the CW.

**Warnings**: GRAPHIC TORTURE

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><p><em>The Pit<em>

When Sam fell into the pit and, consequently, the Cage, he could never imagine torture. Sure, he had twisted Dean's arm for some mentions of Hell, so he had an idea; he knew there was fire and insatiable thirst. What Sam didn't understand was the _anticipation_ in Hell. If he expected rapid fire torture (which Sam regrettably had), it certainly wasn't what he was getting. What he got was a broken record tripping in the background, playing Vivaldi's Flight of the Bees, and a winded Adam laying sprawled beside him.

If he had to describe the Cage, which he only did in the first moments—after that it was just _here_ and everything else was _there_—it reminded him a lot of a heart. The walls moved a bit with an invisible pulse, and were corded and bunched like taut tendons. The floor had been soft and spongy and, if Sam bothered to look closely, he would see all the knitted organs that had been plucked out in times Before. There was also no sky even if there was a blackness above his head. His own breath was difficult to catch, but not impossible.

He had hoped in those first moments. He could breathe so he could survive—just one of those vain human instincts we haul around in our hearts. Sam also didn't see the two Angels because they were falling, much slower given the lower density of Celestial Beings. When they had crashed into the Cage, gracefully and seemingly peaceably, Lucifer quirked a maddening grin. To this day Sam couldn't tell you what Lucifer looked like, he just remembered that first damned smile. It made him sick to see those taut lips aimed at a prone, gasping,-and god—writhing Adam.

"No!" Sam had said instinctually. And it was then that the torture begun.

At first, Lucifer and Michael had ignored each other, claiming opposite walls to truss up their victims. Sam knew the tension would break one day in a tidal wave. Michael had a nasty habit of glancing at Lucifer when he supposed Lucifer was fully occupied. Then, after any stolen glance, Sam knew a new organ would be ripped from him. Lucifer, on the other hand, remained bent over his handiwork with a mindless devotion. It was at night (or what Hell designated as night for this circle of Hell) when both angels had to wait that he'd watch Michael. He'd watch him with a slightly manic smile as he stroked the Cage tenderly—his eyes carefully blank.

In terms of torture, Michael had a brutality to him that left Sam ripped wide open by the end of the day. The Arch Angel found a certain pleasure in slip-sliding organs around, rearranging them about and telling Sam how he absolutely deserved this. Sam only cried and screamed in response, his voice hoarse and barely heard over the unintelligible keening drawn from Adam. Nevertheless, or as expected, Michael was nowhere near creative as Lucifer; Adam always looked barely touched when he was released from the wall so he could heal.

Sam watches Michael carefully as the angel's head is turned, watching Lucifer snip the delicate skin between Adam's fingers. He shivers, wondering if Michael will be inspired, but Michael only turns around to punch him in the gut. The fist breaks the delicate skin, the impact shattering his lower ribs, and Sam lets out a gurgled groan. Michael is not satisfied with the noise and shoves his hand in further, stroking each vertebrae with a delicate touch. "You wish Dean were here, don't you?" Michael prods, well aware of the double edge to his words. Sam manages to cringe at the insinuation, trying to shrink further when Michael continues with "You were always the selfish one."

"No," Sam gasps, low and broken. Michael palms the fluttering lung, bursting an aureole or two so that blood wells to Sam's lips as he dribbles: "No, 's not true."

"But it is," Michael returns slow and easy, easing his fingers around the rough edges of the brachea. Sam tries not to look down, really does, but it's hard to avoid the ragged flesh standing out so far (way too far) from the familiar plane of his stomach as Michael roots around inside him, stroking all his worst parts intimately. "You want Dean down here, too, so he can suffer with you. Because Sammy can be alone if it's his choice—go to Stanford and leave Dean behind. But when Sammy doesn't want to leave, he needs Dean with him." Michael thrusts his fingers into Sam's diaphragm, ripping the flesh to ribbons in an instant. Sam seizes around Michael's goad of "You only make Dean hurt."

In a few moments, where the agony of Adam's whimpers threads itself under Sam's skin and into Sam's stitching wounds, Sam knows that Michael is lying. In all his life, Sam never meant to really hurt Dean and maybe Stanford was a bad decision, but it wasn't the worst. The worst would have been if he stayed because him and Dean would have started this downward spiral that much sooner. Sam raises his eyes, watching Michael as the Angel brandishes a serrated, thin knife. "You know nothing about me," he spits. All of him is shaking like an overworked horse, especially when Michael presses the blade against one nostril.

"I know enough," Michael corrects before slowly sawing off all of Sam's extremities.

That night, or what Sam has termed night, Michael releases Sam from his restraints. At first he hadn't—he liked keeping Sam strung up—but he changed his mind. If Sam had any scrap of his mind left, he might have noticed that Lucifer always let Adam down, gingerly placing him on his side and brushing bloodied, matted hair from his face. Michael never exuded this kindness, rather Michael would idly rip open a stitching wound, or press a finger between two closing pieces of flesh instead. At worst, Michael would gently run his fingers over Sam's skin, a soothing gesture that nearly sent him into seizures. Tonight, Michael seemed to not be interested in torturing Sam further, so the angel sat with his back to the breathing wall, watching Lucifer watch him.

Sam tries shifting to a more comfortable position, but his intestines spill out. He can already feel new ones growing in their place and displacing the old, distended organs. It never feels right; it always reminds him of eating, like filling his stomach up. Kind of like when Dean would shove a bunch of burgers in front of him after a hunt because Sam 'needed his strength' and Sam would eat them dutifully, well past the point he should have. Then he'd feel his stomach distend and everything else feel too heavy to walk around with. He tries to lower his arm, to touch the putrid flesh, but his shoulder snags in painful cramps.

Looking across the floor, Sam can see Adam curled up much the same except he isn't moving. His eyes are wide open, though, looking at Michael across the distance. His mouth is ajar, too, and Sam feels sick when he realizes that Adam is looking at the angel, begging for escape. With that realization, Sam retches, feeling sicker than sick. Minutely, he sees Lucifer shift, about to stand up, but it's lost when Sam fully turns over, face pressed into the floor. His vomit pools around him in tendrils of caressing acid; but it smells better than Hell so he wonders if he should sleep in his vomit more often.

The first weeks, Sam had slept on his side, unable to move. Eventually, Sam gained enough tolerance of pain to crawl to Adam and rest his forehead against the closest part. Sometimes it was a foot. Sometimes it was his half-brother's forehead. Most of the time, though, it was a hand that Adam struggled to reach out despite his shorn tendons, ligaments, and arteries that he wore like bracelets. Michael never moved from his place by the wall, under the bloodied chains and barbs. His eyes never closed, but Sam sensed Michael was fond of escapism, too.

One particular night, Sam dragged his body across the floor. He had noticed, in increments, that Adam seemed to be laying closer and closer to Lucifer each, progressive night. Now Lucifer was mere inches away as Sam took up that space between the tormenter and tormented. The youngest Winchester reached out and, after some fumbling, caught the fine bones of Adam's lax wrist. Adam gives him a moment of attention before delving back into pleasant daydreams that Sam prays to God drowns out the tremors he feels running through that torn body.

It's undeniably miserable in Hell. It reeks and it's hot and you get tortured day in, day out. Sam also knows that it's intended you're alone in Hell, but in the Cage it's impossible. As Sam struggles to shift closer, but every part of him screams not to move, he feels that it's worse to be trapped with someone else. Maybe it's because if shared blood that Sam takes every one of Adam's wounds as a personal insult or maybe it's the fact that Sam is disgustingly grateful that Adam has the better torturer.

Sam lets out a low keen as his vertebrae rearrange. Earlier Michael had so skillfully popped them through the skin of his back, murmuring about how Sam didn't need a spine since he was spineless. Sam feels them slip back through his flesh, too big for the too small holes and he just wants to turn inside out. Softly, a warm hand skates down his spine and he is immediately whole, the pain ebbing and wounds pressed closed instantly. Sam tries to shift to see Lucifer, to look at his face, to know why in the world he just did that, but a hand presses on his face and keeps him turned. Under that hand he has his first dreams in Hell, although not happy or pleasant they offer escape and hope .A hope Michael happily takes away the next day.

Nevertheless, as Sam continues his nightly crawling to Lucifer's side, he continues to dream. Lucifer is also a little more touchy: a hand resting on his hip, fingers curling against shattered cheek bones, palm pressing against quaking flanks. The devil doesn't ever heal Sam like he had the first night, but the comfort of soft gestures is enough for it to be okay. Somewhere in this he realizes Adam is horrified at this exchange, watching his tormenter gently stroke Sam's arm. At first Sam wonders if Adam just doesn't say anything and only looks on in muted horror because of some retained courtesy and then he realizes that Satan had permanently ripped his half-brother's tongue.

Sam even continues this when Michael makes it clear he wants none of it. He becomes harsher in his torture, but his words lose their edge. Michael had always had a habit of talking with each new wound, bringing out some reason to cover up the hideousness of torture. Yet now he is nearly as silent as Lucifer as he works over Sam, mindless and devoted. Sam wonders why, but never really bothers to try to understand. If he did, he'd recognize it as jealousy, something the Winchester boys are far too prone to as well.

Sam isn't very aware when his body is raised, to him it is any other day. He is curled up beside Adam, his nose bumping against his half-brother's top vertebrae as shakes possess him. Even with the absolute, crushing heat of Hell, Sam is consumed with a chill deep inside. Even as he banks on awareness, Sam tries to look like he is out, still healing, but it never works. Michael already has him by his ankle and drags him harshly across the floor. The soft, fleshy ground seems to spike in his path and bloody trails scour Sam's chest. When he is righted to be chained, Michael admires the bright red streaks, thumbing the deepest one.

"You look so pretty in red," the Angel taunts. This is met by a snort from Lucifer who already man handled Adam onto the rack. Lucifer's expression is constantly shifting and Sam feels sick when he sees that it settles on genuinely caring as he examines Sam's body. Lucifer quirks a brow at his brother: Michael begins saying something in an older language until Lucifer turns away without any sign of notice. Sam fancies he can see a stubborn set in Lucifer's shoulders, in the jut of his jaw—all those fancies are washed away, though, as Michael begins his inexhaustible search for Sam's kidney.

A low, keening cry is drawn from Sam as fingers press against the fleshy sac that surrounds his liver. The ragged hole that's kissing Michael's wrist in rhythm with his breath doesn't hurt; somehow the pain is dulled to manageable and that frightens Sam: just how long has been Here? And then Michael scratches at the sac, pinches it tight and Sam writhes, kicking out against his bonds and letting out an agonized snort. When Michael's hand retreats, chased by fluids and the grey film that had been protecting his liver, Sam lets out a wordless cry. A pain starts in accordance behind his eyes as heaviness settles in his gut, making him bloated with just _pain_. Michael chuckles, delving into a new hole for a new prize. God, Sam feels like the fucking old-school claw game and Michael will keep playing til he gets the toy he wants.

Today, though, Michael gets bored. Only after the third thrust does he look at his work admiringly; the slow leak of blood down a trembling abdomen, the distended belly filled with blood and leaking stomach acid. He palms the bloated gut and Sam groans, twisting his face into his suspended arm; Michael drags his face quickly back to focus, hand still toying with the weight. "This is all the evil in you," the Angel of the lord hisses, sending the fluids sloshing with a shove: "It lives and breathes in you and you should pay—"

A snort cuts Michael's tirade off. Sam is caught off guard, but it's hard to measure how off guard because he's woozy from the pain. In a few minutes he'll be back to full awareness, but right now it's all fuzzy and maybe he can die. Then his vision sharpens just in time for Michael to punch him in his gut and he's screaming full throated. "I can be creative" he distantly hears Michael murmur. Distantly because, in a few seconds, his skin is being fluidly slipped up above his ears like a fucking shirt.

The pain with this move, though, is oddly lightly weighted. Not until Michael lets go and begins pulling out each exposed rib with a rabid tenacity that Sam starts screaming again. He loses his voice somewhere between his bile burning his lower back and Spinal cord being wrapped around him so that his skin is held nice and snug to his ears. In the blistering pain, though, there is a soft white caress that lights just behind his eyes. Vaguely, he recognizes it as hope but he sure as hell knows he's not the one who put it there. The only other possibility of who could have forces him into another series of gurgling, bloodied screams.

That night, when Sam curls up on the far side, badly broken and weeping, he shudders at Lucifer's touch. Instantly Lucifer leaves Sam alone and begins humming softly and almost inaudibly. After a few moments of puzzling, fully distracted from the pain that's raging across his loose skin, he realizes it's Fur Elise. When Sam shifts his head to watch Lucifer, the fallen angel is sitting much like Michael with his back against the wall and arms propped on his knees. His eyes are watching Michael in the dark, his throat the only part of him moving as it works around the classical piece. When Sam sleeps, no dreams come to him, but he does remember a soft touch just behind his ear.

The next day, Michael continues his creativity. He has a passion for taking Sam's skin off, it sort of replaces his mindless organ ripping from earlier. Sam watches as Michael lays, end to end, strips of Sam's skin, constantly peppering him with trivia questions. Some are silly and pointless like who founded Google and progress to impossible like what did Uriel do on the fifth of the twenty-hundredth year. Sam didn't know and, for that, he lost a swath of skin on his inner thigh. This continued for days or weeks, above the constant disapproval of Lucifer's snorting.

When Michael finally wheels around, leveling Lucifer with a harsh stare, he thinks 'this is the end, they start fighting and we all die or worse, we don't, and god oh god oh god'. But then Michael just bursts emphatically "What? You think you can do a better job?" to which Lucifer returns an emphatic 'yes'.

Michael is seething but dutifully steps away from Sam. So much of that reminds Sam of Dean, how he'll try to be the best (and he generally is) but if you get his goat he'll goad you to prove you're better. And he'll do it just like Michael, sulking and pointedly not looking.

Lucifer slinks the short distance over to Sam, carefully stepping around the stripped skin. His jaw sets at the exposed muscle that twitches in response to his nearness, Sam's whole being suddenly zinging. This man, or angel, or what have you is the worst of hell and he's about to torment Sam. Suddenly, any dignity Sam had carried through this is left with the drip-drip of his blood from the meat hooks in his back. Lucifer waits patiently in front of Sam until Michael has started working over Adam and then tosses Sam a rueful grin: "Brother's, can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em."

Sam grimaces, jaw stubbornly set. Lucifer shrugs. When the devil's shoulders tense, he expects a punch to the gut or something equally unpleasant, but all that arises is another displeased huff. "I hate meat hooks," Lucifer admits, carefully raising Sam up and off the butcher implements. "I mean they're great for torture—don't get me wrong—" Sam shivers as Lucifer gently turns him, pressing exploratory into the open, deep wounds. Sam lets a moan, deep and low, drag over his tongue. "But they're so impersonal," Lucifer continues: "I want you to remember you're human Sam, not some animal strung up after slaughter."

The fingers twist from the open wounds and Sam lets out a louder groan as the holes knit up neatly and precisely. Sam stumbles over a few thoughts, trying to piece together why Lucifer could possibly prefer he remembers he's human, of all things. He's nothing but some toy in this Cage for two demented angels to play with. He's nothing.

Or maybe he's something because he saved Bobby and Dean. Except he almost killed Dean and this brings real, fresh tears to his eyes. He desperately wants Dean—not here, but just somewhere. Lucifer tuts as he guides Sam onto the rack, belly pressed against the center bar as his hands are chained loosely above and apart. Lucifer widens Sam's stance, sliding two strong hands up his flanks. "You're always thinking about Dean, you know that?" Lucifer whispers hot and heavy in Sam's ear. "Blaming yourself for sending him down here the first time around and for the guilt he's gotta have for your swan dive."

Sam whimpers, each truth biting more deeply than all the 'demon-spawn', 'monster' crap Michael had spewed out in their previous sessions. Lucifer seems to reach into his soul and pulls images of Dean to the forefront; a soft smile when Dean is genuinely happy, the crinkling of his eyes when he is fully relaxed with a beer in hand, and the warmth of his hugs whenever Sam needs him close. Then those memories are burnt one by one and, inexplicably, Sam knows he's never getting them back. "No!" he screams, thrashing and fighting the invisible fire raging in his head that's burning up his mind. "no! No! No! No!"

"Beg me to stop," Lucifer mentions in challenge. Sam bites his lip, the memories of Dean reinforcing his resolve just as much as they're breaking it. Blood dribbles from his mouth as he cries until, finally, when the Christmas he gave Dean that amulet surfaces, he whispers.

"Please, stop."

Immediately, the onslaught lets up, but it's only for a few moments before a new person's memories, this time Dad's, are being burnt. As Lucifer continues through Sam's friends and family, each time stopping immediately when Sam begs (but he has to beg louder each time, call Lucifer by his name). When Lucifer seems content and Sam is only a shivering mass of pathetic, he steps away. "You really love him," Lucifer whispers from a space not too far off from Sam. And Sam knows Lucifer is referring to Dean. "Want to know a secret?" Lucifer goads, voice impossibly far but still slip sliding under Sam's skin. "I really love my brother, too."

Then Lucifer dives in again, washing Sam with memory after memory that is Lucifer. He sees the love between him and Michael—how Lucifer basically admired his brother even though he was the Morning Star and not Michael. To him, and only to Lucifer, was Michael the brightest and strongest of all. When God told Lucifer to put humans before other angels (and Michael, especially Michael), he just couldn't. He hated them and found others like him because who was he to throw what he and his brother had away for a multitude of ignorant and weak beings?

Lucifer withheld his fall, though, just stopping short of it. Sam finally ceases his thrashing against the rack, vomit trailing his chin and knees where they protrude onto the other side of the device. Lucifer is still that immeasurable distance away, but Sam feels him so strongly it hurts. "Sound familiar?" Lucifer says, heartbroken. And Sam is heartbroken too because he can't hate anything because he understands the 'why' so god-damned thoroughly. If he could hate them, then it would be easier to take the pain.

But the next day, when Lucifer turns him back over to Michael, Sam imagines the different roles, just as Lucifer had intended. He imagines Dean thrusting his hands into him, trying to root out the evil as if it were something he could fight. (Because maybe then he could make his baby brother all better, bring him back home). The cold expression on Michael's stony face tells Sam, though, how this particular story is going to end.

Sometimes, he wishes Winchesters just weren't so stubborn.

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><p>I hope you liked it.<p>

Review please :)

I might add more parts, but I highly doubt it. I never imagined much plot beyond this except in a future!fic, which would be quite a time jump. Maybe Dean can do that, but they still make me woozy.

I'm also considering moving all my supernatural stuff to a new account because this one is crowded with old stories. We'll see how that goes :/


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